


Say When

by rosethorngirl



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Jack pov, M/M, Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosethorngirl/pseuds/rosethorngirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You knew it was wrong from the beginning. You knew you had to end it before it began. But being the closet masochist you are, you let it all unfold anyway. Each disconnected step crossing the threshold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say When

Say When

I see you there, don't know where you come from  
Unaware of the stare from someone  
Don't appear to care that I saw ya, and I want you  
What's your name  
Cuz' I have to know it  
You let me in and begin to show it  
We're terrified 'cuz we're heading straight for it, might get it.

You're in the song playing on the background  
All alone but you're turning up now  
And everyone is rising to meet you, to greet you  
Turn around and you're walking toward me  
I'm breaking down and you're breathing slowly  
Say the word and I will be your man, your man

Say when  
And my own two hands will comfort you  
Tonight, tonight  
Say when  
And my own two arms will carry you  
Tonight, tonight

Come close and then even closer  
We bring it in but we go no further  
We're separate.  
Two ghosts in one mirror, no nearer  
Later on if it turns to chaos, hurricane coming all around us  
See the crack, pull it back from the window, you stay low

Say when  
And my own two hands will comfort you  
Tonight, tonight  
Say when  
And my own two arms will carry you  
Tonight, tonight

Come across you lost and broken  
You're coming to but you're slow in waking  
You start to shake.  
You still haven't spoken, what happened?  
They're coming back and you just don't know when  
You want to cry but there's nothing comin'  
They're gonna push until you give in  
Say when

Now we're here and it turns to chaos  
Hurricane coming all around us  
Double crack throws you back from the window, you stay low

It all began with the man, a country  
Every plan sends another century around again  
Another nation fallen

Maybe god can be on both sides  
Of the gun  
Never understood why  
Some of us never get it so good  
So good  
Some of this was here before us  
All of this will go after us  
Never stops until we give in, give in

Say when  
And my own two hands will comfort you  
Tonight, tonight  
Say when  
And my own two arms will carry you  
Tonight, tonight

Say when  
And my own two hands will comfort you  
Tonight, tonight

"Say When" by The Fray off album The Fray

~B&H~B&H~B&H~B&H

You knew it was wrong from the beginning.

You knew you had to end everything before it even began.

But being the closet masochist you are, you let it unfold anyway. Each disconnected step fixed on crossing the threshold, and passing the man that makes your heart flutter and your cock harden and your insides turn to mush. It was inevitable. When he gives you those eyes – those brown, freshly melted chocolate eyes – filled with adoration and lust and warmth and acceptance and home…your body never responds to what your head says is right.

You feel so dirty, while walking forward and crossing that small barrier; and you almost start gasping for more air. Because you know he would be able to smell your filthy-ness if he would just stop looking at you like you are the missing link to where the world begins and ends. You know he would throw you out in a flurry of fists and foul words, back out and onto the similarly filthy pavement…which you also know is where you belong.

He takes your coat as he gives you that smile. That smile that promised naughty things but also promised you sanctuary, once upon a time. Now all it promises is impending doom, even as you try and smile back while you allow words to pass between the two of you. They are only words, not conversation. Everything to you is under water.

As words, nonsensical words continue to spill from between his perfectly sculpted lips you notice how absolutely hot he looks. You notice – or maybe more than notice – the button down, off-white and graphically designed, long sleeved shirt he's wearing…and how it seems to both cling to every one of his muscles and fit loosely enough for him to roll the sleeves up. You unconsciously lick your lips as you see some of his creamy flesh exposed through the open top three buttons, and offhandedly also notice the long chain holding a couple of unimportant items peeking out as well. You notice, as he turns in expectancy of your following, that the un-tucked shirt is over jeans that make your mouth involuntarily pool with saliva. It hugs his ass so tight you wonder what the hell he did for underwear…until you realize where that thinking was going to get you. But it is absolutely impossible not to linger on the seductive sight, as you painstakingly further notice that he is purposely adding an extra sway to his hips, effectively making those suppressed images flash through your mind...

Naked flesh being licked and kissed and touched and stroked…pants and whines and whimpers and begs for more…tongues clashing and fighting for dominance as bodies roll around on whatever flat surface available…arching back as fingers probe at a secret place that makes both of you shudder…cries of passion as skin slaps against skin, and legs are tightened around the waist housing the member pleasuring them so completely…shouts and sighs and screams of release, as both of your bodies reach the pinnacle of it all; and you once again feel the love he has for you…the whispers of contentment and soft kisses exchanged as you both separate…

Oh, now you are so hot you can't even bear walking anymore. If he noticed the self hate so clearly written in your aura, he didn't show it. You want to hate him for that. For not knowing what he is doing to your control and how close you are to destroying everything again. But once you reach the kitchen of his small, lived-in apartment, you can be nothing but numb to those feelings. Choosing instead to allow yourself one more meal with him in peace before you drop the atomic bomb you wish to hell and back wasn't a bomb that needed to be dropped.

He obviously spent a long time on all of this too. You know those clothes are new, since you know what is in his closet. You know he cooked the food he is fussing over plating correctly, since you see well hidden grocery bags poking out of the trash can from the corner of your eye. You know he stressed over which wine to choose and what candles to put out, because that's just who he is. You also know he put on that jazz CD you bought him a month ago, because you made love to him after he told you he loves jazz because he finds it so romantic. And worst of all you know he is walking out on a limb here, hoping to hear the words he has been trying so hard to get you to say for a month and a half, thinking that when you called him to say that tonight you had something you had to say to him, that you meant you were going to tell him, "I love you." But you aren't here to tell him that. And how much you wished it were the case, that the real dirty reason for why you are here wasn't so.

You wish he wouldn't turn around and smile at you again, saying something about hoping you like what he made; and wouldn't set the delicious looking food in front of you, before uncorking the wine bottle and pouring each of you a generous portion. That he wouldn't give you those eyes with that smile and sway his hips just right to make your own dilated eyes follow the sewn pattern on the pockets of his ass, as he dims the lights of the kitchen to make it so totally intimate you have to restrain from bursting into tears of shame. That he wouldn't sit across from you, looking nervous for the first time tonight, like he was preparing himself for something…that he wouldn't trust you so goddamned much with his heart and body and soul, and expect so goddamned much from you because you've promised him so goddamned much. Holy hell, how much you've promised him…how much you lied to him like the fuckers before. You suddenly feel more sick.

And as time begins to slip between your fingers, you really do mean to just come out and tell him the truth, you do. You want to end all of it, because it was giving you a major case of claustrophobia…but the fantasy was so nice you just couldn't. You couldn't help but start smiling back at him through the ambient glow of the candles with some actual warmth of your own showing. You couldn't help but see how he relaxed he became when he noticed you beginning to act "normal," and not like he had done something very strange and you were insulted somehow. You couldn't help but enjoy the food, and compliment him on it, and grin when he blushes while fluffing it off. You couldn't help but accept more and more wine, and continue to blame that for the reason for your cowardice.

But suddenly, after you both had finished your dinner (and was it your fourth glass of wine?)…he stands and excuses himself, you letting him go with a few understanding words, and watch him escaping to the hall before walking in the direction of the bathroom. You can't place the look on his face, but really you can't place much of anything anymore. You stare disdainfully at the wine bottle, hating the potency of the alcohol and yet grateful for it as well.

It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours…your inebriated mind unsurprisingly making time gaps seem to bleed together…but when you look behind you to where your name was called in a voice more potent to your system than any liquor, you swear you melted to the floor. Bare feet replacing his favorite boots; cream loose cotton – almost see through with their obvious thinness, and brooking no complaints from you as you can so clearly see his package – drawstring capris replacing the jeans; and matching cream colored cotton shirt, half buttoned, and loosely covering his chest to replace his other shirt. His hair was purposely disheveled and completed the sex siren's call you knew he knew you would respond to. Which, helplessly and horribly and unforgivably…you did.

You allowed yourself to glide (yes, glide because you don't remember footsteps) over to where he was waiting for you. Lust and nervousness and want and fear and love – nausea causing love, because you know you are about to betray him yet again – shining in those beautiful brown eyes you had so honestly wished would stop looking at you the way they were and are now.

"You haven't kissed me tonight, Jack." He whispers when your faces are only separated by noses that dance together in remembered practice. You briefly realize how much shorter he is now, barefoot. He is still taller than you, but now it doesn't feel like such a stretch.

"I have been saving my kisses for now, baby," you lie and fight the bile rising your throat. You don't let him respond, as you grab the back of his neck with one hand and bring him in for an intense, almost desperate kiss. You need to taste something pure, something real, something right…but you know how terribly wrong this is. You knew it was wrong from the beginning.

And in spite of this knowledge, you let him lead you out of the doorway of the kitchen. Absently thankful the candles were strategically placed over a drip pan, and listening as the jazz faded with your shadow. You didn't notice that he had shut off all the lights, until when you finally parted. Gasping for breath outside his bedroom. It's also low light in there as well, save for the dim lamp beside the bed. He steps in front of you, sensual smirk in place as he sways his hips some more for you and crooks a finger for you to follow him again. You cannot help but follow and give your lips and hands and hips to him.

He kisses you with a tenderness you loathe. Tenderness was for a deserving individual, not for scum like you. But he scrapes at your scalp so gently; and your fingers just feel so right beneath the elastic of his waistband, as you use your left hand to start rubbing the very thing that had enraptured your attention earlier...his firm and curved ass. You croon your approval when he moans in just the right way to make you so stiff with anticipation you feel about to pop.

Without even realizing it, and certainly without his disapproval, you are leading him back toward the bed, and letting his sigh of happiness bring tears to your eyes. With his legs bent over the edge, and you holding him in place by the push of your chest, you pull back to see him in the same boat. Tears are there, but for such different reasons you have to fight to keep from breaking down. How could you do this to him?

The alcohol is messing with your reality, you have to focus. You can't take advantage of him like this…not with the truth still unsaid. He's breathing little puffs of air, waiting for you to do something. You begin to say it, you truly truly do. But looking at his angelic face, you let different truth slip. A truth that you wished you just had been so less cowardly to say a long time ago, a truth that you know won't matter soon.

"I love you, Seeley Booth." Your whisper sounds choked with tears, but that's okay because he's crying now too. However, you can't see past his blinding smile.

"I love you, too, Jack Hodgins." And that's when the dam breaks. You both collapse against the weight of the emotional pull those words carry. You can't bring yourself to say anything else. He seems so happy, and you hope you can pretend you're happy too.

Because this isn't a beginning but an end, and it's an end you won't allow yourself to forget.

You let him grab your face and kiss you ferociously. And after that you let him shift you both to be laying the actual length of the bed. You can't stop now. Can't stop yourself from diving into this one more time, damned to all consequences. Cause that's all you ask for. One more time.

And you know that it's wrong when he lets you rip open the few buttons of his thin cotton shirt. You know that it's wrong when he wrenches your T-shirt over your head. You know that it's wrong that you are kissing his hairless, perfect chest wetly – letting saliva mix with your sorrow and shame filled tears. You know that it's wrong that he is letting you take control of his body, when you haven't earned that trust; and you know you don't have much control of your own. And, ah, god, you know that it is so wrong that he is whispering words of affection to you, like you actually deserve them.

But you ignore these truths, just like you have ignored so many others, and pull his capris off of him anyway. You can't help but groan as you watch him so willingly part his legs for you, and also can't help but feel sick to your stomach as you know you shouldn't be pleasuring yourself like this. His cock standing so proud and tall, in obvious need of attention and making your vision blur from the arousal and the alcohol and the pain of knowing you will never get this pleasure again.

"Jack, please." He whimpers to you, face pained with need, calling you back to him. How come you can't say no?

"I'm here, baby. I'm right here." Betraying you. Your mind screams. But you stay silent and refuse to let the possibility of making a mistake by saying it out loud…so you put your mouth to other works.

Your body is on auto-pilot as you begin to give him the best job you have ever given. Hoping against hope that somehow, when all of the chips fall to the broken sea, he will remember this moment. And in typical fashion, he is keening for you to continue your assault with your tongue on his hole. With another sweep up, over his balls, and to the head of his prick, you feeling him shaking with readiness to spill. So instead of letting it happen, you pull back and get the lube he left on the night table next to the bed for tonight. He is groaning in frustration but then arching upwards in delight as you don't hesitate to thrust two fingers deep within his opening.

"Oh, Jack!" he cries out as you begin to feverishly piston them back and forth, relentlessly; using your other hand to push his leg further out and up. He's spread so wide in wanton abandon of nothing but you. "Sweetheart, so good." He moans and twists his hip on the side not trapped by your skilled hands the slightest fraction to cry out again as you both find his prostate. You're panting with him when you pull back to lube up again and add a third finger.

He is pushing down on your hand, fucking himself on the fingers…and you can't take the sight any longer without situating your cock to start rubbing against his lowered leg. "Ugh, fuck." You growl into his ear. "Fuck, Seeley… Ohhh, mmmghh, I'm going to fuck you so good!" And then you start tongueing his throat without care for finesse.

"Yes, Jack, ohhhh," he groans when you hit his sweet spot in the place above his clavicle, "fuck me! Fuck me now!" His voice is shaky and sounds drunken but you are just the same.

"Do you want it, Booth? Do you want me to fuck your brains out? Do you want me so far deep inside, showering you in my…" you falter, "in my love?" You focus on his face, then, not the urge to throw up with how horrible you are for saying it again and getting his hopes up.

"Yes, yes, yes!" He arches his spine further, contorting his body to take your fingers deeper. You can tell he is so close. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a desperate kiss, before pushing back and staring at you through lust-lidded eyes. "Take me, Jack. Fill me up. Fill me up with your love." His words were so honest, you started crying again.

And you don't answer, just pull your fingers out and listen to his almost pain-filled scream. Slathering the lube on, you spread his legs wide again, before surging forward all the way to the hilt and stay perfectly still. His eyes fly open just as yours jam closed, and you feel every muscle contract as he takes all of you in. Slowly you open your eyes to see his closing, when you feel the muscles start to relax.

"Unnghhh," he groans as his legs droop open further, you catch them and help him wrap them around you waist. "Move." He moans and you can't do anything but respond in kind.

The first thrust feels like sin. Deep and dirty. You hang your head to rest against shoulder, not sure if you can handle watching his face screw up in ecstasy. The second thrust feels like a whip to your back. Hard and painful. You cry out as the hands he slapped on your shoulders in an attempt to anchor himself start to grip in their spot. By the third thrust you stop comparing how it feels, because no matter how many flowery words you can put to it, it's still an oxymoron.

Feels so amazingly good, but so entirely unbearable.

Feels so cathartic, but so completely burdening.

Feels like Heaven, but is actually so very much your Hell.

Your own personal Hell. A Hell created for you and all other lying, cheating, scumbags. Because face it, isn't that who you are?

You shake your head against his shoulder and tell yourself to stop think about it. "Ohh, don't stop, need you, neeeeed-ohh fuck…" He mewls as you let your pace start to become erratic. You know you need to be more gentle. That you need to savor

Every.

Last.

Second.

But Every.

Single.

Thrust. Is so good you can't.

"Do you want it harder baby?" you growl and watch in horrified satisfaction as he arches his back begging for more. Trusting you to give him more. And you do give him more. You start to fuck him so hard the headboard is moving against the wall. And you continue to hate yourself for it, but the pleasure is great the line are getting blurry.

"Jack," he cries, tears pooling down his cheeks. Whether there from his impending orgasm or the passionate haze you've found yourself in you don't think you'll ever be sure. "I'm cumming, I', cumming…" he says and you can't allow yourself to see how beautiful he is when he is in that final moment of ecstasy, so instead you drop your head to the pillow and surge forward intent on cumming as well. After two more thrusts yo both explode. Him with his nails embedded in your shoulder, eyes closed, mouth screaming your name, body arched and all but wrapped completely around you. And you, panting in his ear, hands in hair and gripping his knee, eyes open to the blackness of the space between his head and the pillow. IN some small form you hope you die right there of asphyxiation, but he doesn't give you the chance. He takes his suddenly gentle, yet shaking hands and runs it through your hair in order to cause you to finally look at him again.

He smiles at you. And smiles at you in that way that has no fear, no sadness, no feelings of doubt or insecurity. He thinks he has finally put all of that behind him and the he can finally move on with life. And then he sees it. In your eyes, of course. They are the windows to the soul, you know? And he sees it for the first time that night.

"Jack?" he asks in confusion and pain and betrayal and every other word someone can conjure up.

"Baby I…" You what? What can you say? "I'm sorry." And the tears that come from both of you and go with that are like acid. "I'm so sorry." Like gasoline on flames. "I didn't mean to… I swear I..."

And even as he pushes you off and stumbles into his attached en suite bathroom and slams the door…

You knew it was wrong from the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are love!


End file.
